


Down the Rabbit Hole

by akitsuko



Series: A Series of Incredible Tropes [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Come Eating, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, Languages, M/M, Mutual Pining, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27621739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitsuko/pseuds/akitsuko
Summary: Edward notices that he's started to gape, and quickly averts his gaze before he gets noticed, silently willing himself to become invisible.Edward is just trying to learn Hungarian in peace, when the most beautiful man he's ever seen comes into his regular coffee shop.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: A Series of Incredible Tropes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001790
Comments: 30
Kudos: 90





	Down the Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

> #5 - Coffee Shop AU
> 
> This feels like a mess from start to finish, but insert-speedwriting-disclaimer-here. Also, all my first meeting AUs seem to end with alley!sex, which I'm sorrynotsorry for.
> 
> For the purpose of this fic, Os and Ivy are both fluent in Hungarian. Forgive my creative liberties with the language-learning process.

When he's not at work, Edward likes to set himself little projects to keep himself occupied. His social life is non-existent, and he fears he might go mad if left to his own devices with nothing to busy his mind.

Collecting and creating riddles is always a safe option, but he does enjoy branching out every now and again. He taught himself to sew after he first moved to Gotham, starting with basics like cushion covers but quickly progressing to more complex pieces. His favourite jacket - black, with green question marks on the lining - is one that he made himself. 

Then he experimented with cooking. This, he was already somewhat skilled at, but living alone and with a reasonable amount of financial stability meant that he could expand, and trial making more niche dishes from different cuisines. Now it's almost second nature to him to create exciting and delicious meals for himself. It's basically applied science, after all.

He has several projects that are more longitudinal in nature. He bought a second-hand piano for his apartment, and he's been teaching himself to play, but he doesn't practice as often as he ought to so his skills are still rusty. He also has a large selection of clocks that he enjoys tinkering with, taking them apart to explore their inner workings when he has a few spare moments at home. Sometimes he'll catch himself still sitting at his desk examining springs into the early hours of the morning, having ironically lost track of the time. 

For the winter, he's given himself the task of learning a new language. He has a smattering of a few, enough conversational skills to get by in French, Spanish, and Italian. But he'd wanted to challenge himself, so he'd considered languages which were lesser spoken, ones which he knew almost nothing about. In the end, he'd selected Hungarian. 

And now he's nicely settled into a routine. There's an independent coffee shop not too far from his work, open until late, and he goes there every weekday after his shift finishes. He sits in the same spot, as long as it isn't already taken. He orders himself a large Americano with two shots of hazelnut syrup to keep him going for a while. He unpacks his laptop, his notebook, and his stationery. And he stays there for a couple of hours, focusing on his study, the hum of the background environment becoming little more than white noise. When he leaves, the sun having long since set and the dim streetlights barely lighting the way back to his car, he's a slightly better Hungarian speaker than he was when he arrived. 

It's really rather nice. 

And it's on one of these normal, unassuming days that something happens to disrupt his equilibrium rather spectacularly. 

He's been in his usual seat for about twenty minutes when the bell rings to signal that someone has come into the shop. Nothing out of the ordinary. He glances up briefly, clarifies that actually two people have come in, and then looks back down at his laptop screen. A few seconds later, his brain catches up with his eyes, and he raises his gaze again to take a better look. 

The first person is a young woman, probably around his age, with bright red hair styled in waves and a tight-fitting green coat. Usually, this might have caught Edward's attention, but not this time. Oh, no. This time, his attention is reserved solely for the second individual.

A man, again around the same age. A few inches shorter. Choppy black hair, clearly styled meticulously. Incredibly striking features, moulded into an expression of distaste. He's wearing a suit that probably cost more than Edward makes in a month, every aspect of it fitting him to absolute perfection. 

He is, to be blunt, the most attractive creature that Edward has ever laid eyes upon. 

Edward notices that he's started to gape, and quickly averts his gaze before he gets noticed, silently willing himself to become invisible. 

His blood pulses harder through his veins as he leans his head in his hands and tries to focus again on the Hungarian verbs that he's teaching himself to conjugate. It's a fruitless endeavour, though, and he knows it. His ears are straining as he listens out for the two strangers, who have approached the counter to make their orders. He's too far away though, and their voices too soft, for him to make out a single word. 

Perhaps the man will order a large Americano with two shots of hazelnut syrup, just like he does. It could happen. On the balance of probability, it seems unlikely, but it's certainly not outside the realm of possibility. And wouldn't that just be a sign of a fated encounter? 

He's not sure what he would say, or how he would introduce himself. One of the main reasons for his lack of a social life is his inability to understand the fundamentals of social rules and etiquette. It seems unfair, he's often lamented, that everybody else seems to have access to this unwritten guide for what to say or do in any given situation, whereas he's just been left to muddle through as best he can with none of those helpful hints. 

But this wouldn't be an opportunity he should allow to slip through his fingers. Despite his tendency towards logical thought processes, he's always been a believer in fate, that some things are simply meant to be. This man, who has so effortlessly managed to grasp his attention and his imagination in the space of a few seconds, cannot be allowed to get away from him. 

He watches, out of the corner of his eye, as the two of them collect their drinks and move to sit at a table near the far end of the cafe. He can't tell from this distance what the man has chosen to order. And he stays exactly where he is, frozen in place, kept there by the one thing he failed to take into consideration, that he always fails to take into consideration until the crucial moment: his crippling shyness. 

Even if the man were alone, Edward doubts he would be able to muster the guts to approach him. 

There's no way he can possibly focus on the acquisition of a new language now, but he pretends to be absorbed in his study materials anyway, whilst watching the man as best he can with as much subtlety as he can manage. He really is captivating. Everything about the way he moves is confident and graceful, and his face is so expressive that Edward fancies he could take a good guess at whatever he might be talking to his companion about.

He wonders whether the companion is actually a girlfriend, and that thought stings in his chest. The oh-so familiar crush of disappointment upon discovering that the recipient of his interest is unavailable. It's more than likely that this is the case, but a small part of his mind continues to entertain the fantasy that the man might notice him back. 

It doesn't happen. 

They stay for a short time, maybe a quarter of an hour, before heading back out into the street. In that time, Edward suspects that the man didn't even once glance in his direction. It's disheartening, but not surprising. He's not the type of person to command attention, and he's in no way physically noteworthy. He's just another boring young man minding his own business (mostly) in a lonely corner of a coffee shop. There's absolutely nothing about him that he could expect to endear him to someone so evidently superior to him in every way. 

For a while, he tries to go back to his Hungarian verbs. It doesn't take long for him to realise it's futile, that he's far too distracted for any concentrated learning efforts, so he cuts his losses and packs his things away much earlier than usual. 

A week passes. Although Edward has far from forgotten about the mysterious and beautiful individual, he's been able to file the man away into the section of his brain reserved for unrealistic expectations. It's given him more room to dedicate to Hungarian, and he thinks he's coming along pretty well. He's got the basics of the grammar down, as well as some key pieces of vocabulary. He thinks he could probably hold a very short, very slow and very stilted conversation. 

It won't take him long to improve, he's confident about that. He's always been able to pick up things like this relatively quickly, at least compared to everyone he's ever been at school with. 

On this late Tuesday afternoon, he approaches the coffee shop with a spring in his step. Work hasn't been too tedious, and his condescending boss has more or less left him alone. He much prefers to be left to get on with it without the petty distractions of unkind or moronic colleagues; he does his best work by himself. 

That's not to say that he doesn't sometimes envy the easy camaraderie his coworkers seem to share. He'll watch them chat about their weekend plans and laugh over inside jokes that he will never be privy to, his expression stoic but his soul wistful, and he will wonder why he couldn't just be normal, like everybody else. 

Still, there's nothing he can do about it save changing absolutely everything about himself, and he certainly doesn't care enough about the approval of others to make that sort of effort or commitment. Let them exclude him and think him weird. Someday he intends to make something of himself, and who will be laughing then? 

The older woman behind the counter takes his order, smiling as she asks him how his day has been going so far. He responds cordially, as he always does, and it only elevates his mood further when he sees that his usual seat is empty. Even better, there are only two other customers in the shop, each sitting alone and nowhere near his spot, which means that he ought to be able to work with a reasonable amount of peace. 

His coffee is served after a minute or so. He takes it with his thanks and drops an extra bill in the tip jar. And it's with a happy sigh that he sinks into the comfortably familiar chair at 'his' table, plugging his laptop into the outlet and unpacking his books. 

Today, he intends to start with a bit of translation, just for fun. He's taken a paragraph from a Hungarian translation of a classic novel, and he's going to type it out in English, before doing the reverse with a different English passage. It's the sort of thing he enjoys because it feels like unravelling a puzzle. 

However, no sooner has he opened a blank word processing document to begin than the bell has jingled, and he looks up on autopilot to be greeted with the sight of the same gorgeous stranger he noticed the week before. He's even more striking than Edward remembers. He oozes extravagance. Though his suit is different to the one from last time, it still fits him impeccably. 

And, this time, he's alone. 

Edward watches him while pretending not to watch him. His smile, when he approaches the counter, is dazzling and charming; Edward feels a hard stab of jealousy that Maureen, the friendly and inconsequential barista, is the one lucky enough to be on the receiving end of it. Does she realise that she's speaking to the most remarkable creature on the planet? She may be nice but she's an imbecile, so Edward thoroughly doubts it. 

He quickly looks at his screen when the man turns to scan the cafe, presumably choosing where he's going to sit. It's alright, Edward reassures himself. There are plenty of empty tables. It stands to reason that he will select one at the greatest distance from anybody else, because that would be the socially acceptable thing to do. With a little bit of luck, he will sit with his back facing Edward, reducing the possibility that he will be caught staring. He takes a breath as he turns a page in one of his books and types a few meaningless letters on his keyboard, hoping to add to the impression of indifference. 

Such an impression becomes far more difficult to maintain when he sees, in his peripheral vision, that the man is walking towards him. He holds himself still, staring resolutely at his screen, and he gets the vague impression that he's nothing but a weak and terrified prey, voluntarily paralysed in the hope that the dangerous predator will fail to notice him. It's not a pleasant feeling. 

The man's shoes clack softly on the laminate floor as he passes Edward, and then the sound of a chair scraping signals that he has chosen to sit at the table directly behind him. The wafting aroma of something significantly stronger than his own Americano reaches Edward's nostrils. A shuffle of paper suggests that the man is flicking through the pages of a book of his own. 

Edward hardly dares breathe, lest he draw attention to himself by inhaling too loudly, but then internally scolds himself for being such an overreacting moron. The man's choice of seat, while odd, certainly has nothing to do with him. He should just do what he does best - keep himself to himself, and at least then he at least ought to get through this turn of events without embarrassing himself. 

So he blows out a slow exhale, and steels himself to forget that the man is there at all. He starts by reading through the gibberish he's already typed and deleting the lot, settling into his self-assigned translation with a more determined mindset. 

It actually works surprisingly well. It's much easier to ignore the man's presence when he can't see him. He successfully gets both of his passages translated, into and out of Hungarian respectively, and gives his work a satisfied once-over before getting into the nitty-gritty of some more grammatical concepts. 

It's close to half an hour gone when the rhythmic buzzing of a phone behind him draws him back to reality. He almost falls out of his chair in shock when the man answers the call in smooth and fluent Hungarian. 

What are the chances? Not very high, he would wager. He can't help but eavesdrop. He can hear every word clearly, and the man's voice is just as beautiful as he imagined it might be, even if he can only understand a few words here and there. He picks out  _ mother, work,  _ and  _ I will,  _ but almost everything else sounds largely like just a jumble of Uralic-sounding nonsense. 

He's disappointed in himself, he realises, clenching his pen tightly in his fist. This could have been absolutely perfect, a way to introduce himself and break the ice both at once, but his own linguistic ineptitude makes it impossible to do with any amount of grace. There are few things more frustrating than when it's his own fault that a situation is unfavourable for him, especially when he could have taken steps to remedy the problem if he had only known. 

Well, he knows now, he thinks to himself as he listens to the lovely tones of the man conversing behind him. He needs to up his game, learn this language far more efficiently, so that he can be ready if this man should see fit to cross his path again in the future. 

He catches a few more words as the conversation appears to wind down -  _ yes, tonight, morning  _ \- until the speaking stops altogether, leading Edward to conclude that the call has ended. Shortly afterwards, the chair scrapes again, and the footsteps pass him, accompanied by a light rustle of fabric and a scent reminiscent of lavender and sandalwood. Edward takes a deep inhale of it, only when he's sure that the man is far enough past him that he won't notice. It's completely intoxicating. And, without a backward glance, the man leaves. 

Edward releases a tension from his shoulders that he hadn't realised he was carrying. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. He's dangerously close to falling down the slippery slope of obsession with this man who he's only seen twice in life. He has a tendency towards those sorts of behaviours, and he recognises the signs that they're coming, but he's powerless to stop it. 

Every time he sets foot in the shop from then on, he holds a quiet hope that the man will reappear, but it's another week until he does. Edward has spent the time wisely, quadrupling his efforts to gain a degree of fluency in Hungarian, dedicating every spare moment of his time to it. He's had to be kicked out of the shop at closing time on a few occasions, so absorbed he'd been in his task that he'd failed to notice the late hour. 

When Tuesday arrives, he's nothing short of wired, because patterns are something he has a talent for noticing, and it's now been two Tuesdays in a row that the man has walked into his life. He makes an effort to look good when he dresses for work in the morning - not so much that his colleagues might take notice of him and interrogate him about his motives, but enough that he feels the difference within himself. And he's in such a hurry to get to the shop after the end of his shift that he bangs his shin on the corner of a desk in his haste to leave. 

It's a little busy when he arrives, but by no means full or crowded. He gets his Americano (from Jacob, the teenage student barista, because Maureen doesn't seem to be working today) and rushes to procure his spot before someone else decides to take it. Only when he's settled, with his usual supplies out on the table in front of him, does he allow himself to relax in increments. It's silly, because he's working from nothing but a hunch, but he's excited as he waits for the man he can't stop thinking about to walk through the door. 

The seconds stretch into agonising minutes. After around forty minutes, he starts to doubt himself, wondering whether he was mistaken. The man may never return. Two occurrences is hardly infallible evidence of a pattern, after all; it could very well have been nothing but a coincidence that he came here two Tuesdays in a row. Three might be too much to hope for. 

Edward tries to look past his dejection and see the positives instead. At least his Hungarian has come along in great strides with his concentrated efforts. His ability to follow spoken conversation has improved enormously, and although he hasn't really had any chances to practice his speaking, he barely needs to look up many of the words in his written translations now. 

Just as he resigns himself to spending yet another evening attempting to perfect an endeavour that now feels largely pointless, the jangle of the bell has him whipping his head up. Delight, relief, and excitement flood his system in equal measure as the man he's been waiting for rushes through the door, shaking droplets of rain off the black umbrella he's carrying. 

But Edward's initial joy doesn't last long, his smile rapidly souring as he notices that the red-haired woman from the first time is with him again. He'd been so wrapped up in his growing obsession with the man that he'd somehow forgotten about the mystery female who may or may not be his girlfriend. 

The two of them are chatting animatedly, although Edward is too far away to hear what they're saying or even to identify which language they're using. He pretends to work while they order their drinks, but he can't fully suppress his scowl. How has he allowed himself to willfully ignore such a relevant detail? He has to assume the worst, that the companion could prove to be a serious obstacle to him, and he makes himself feel a little better by fantasising about ways to get rid of her. 

He's never really thought of himself as a violent person, but the ideas that fill his head now are certainly less than savoury. If she really is a girlfriend, then he will need to remove her from the equation entirely and permanently. A knife to the gut, perhaps, before dumping her body in the river, never to be seen or heard from again. 

He's surprised by how seriously he considers it. 

Then, alarmingly, they start moving in his direction. 

He pays them no attention, bar attempting to inhale the man's wonderful scent again (unfortunately, it's diluted by something stronger and floral), as they take the table directly behind him. 

They're talking, in Hungarian, and Edward shamelessly listens and translates as best he can. 

_ "Tell me, then,"  _ the woman says. Her voice is sweet and Edward dislikes her very much.  _ "Which one is it?"  _

_ "The one behind you,"  _ the man replies.  _ "That's why I wanted to sit here." _

They are clearly mid-conversation, and that combined with the effort of trying to translate means that Edward is rather confused about what they're talking about.

There's a short pause, and then the woman says,  _ "This guy? You are not serious." _

It occurs to Edward that they are talking about  _ him,  _ and that realisation causes a momentary glitch in his brain. He's been noticed! He takes a second to wonder why they are talking about him so openly within his earshot, and then he remembers that they've likely assumed that he cannot understand Hungarian, and are therefore having a more private conversation. 

His Hungarian comprehension is far from flawless, but it's good enough. 

_ "I am very serious,"  _ the man replies.  _ "Look at him. He's beautiful." _

Edward batters down the sudden urge to turn around and stare in shock, but his eyes still widen in disbelief. He desperately hopes that nothing about his visible body language suggests that he's understood what they're saying. 

Him. Beautiful. 

It seems too good, too fortunate, to be true. 

He doesn't understand the next few words that the woman says, but he does catch the end.  _ "You should ask him out." _

The man groans.  _ "No. He probably doesn't like men." _

There's another short pause, and the sound of fabric shifting. Edward's best guess is that the woman (for whom he now harbours far less irrational hatred, now that the evidence suggests that she's not the man's girlfriend) has turned around to look at him. He turns a page in his book, though he could not possibly be paying less attention to its contents. He hopes he's doing a convincing job of appearing ignorant; he can feel himself starting to sweat. 

Then she speaks again.  _ "You are stupid. Do you want to die alone?"  _

_ "He would not be interested in me,"  _ the man responds. Edward itches to correct him. 

_ "Do you want me to ask him for you?"  _

_ "No!"  _ is the man's hasty answer.  _ "If you do, I will hurt you." _

The woman makes a dismissive sound, like blowing a raspberry. 

Edward is giddy, high on new possibilities. His toes are dancing inside his shoes. He can barely string together a single coherent thought for himself. 

And then, to his enormous surprise, the man starts to speak in English. 

"I refuse to talk about this with you any longer," he says. "You will only end up embarrassing me."

"Oh, you're such a killjoy. Sometimes you have to take risks!" 

"Only when you are fully informed!"

"I swear, Ozzy, one of these days I will find you a nice boy to settle down with- ow!" 

From the exclamation and accompanying sounds, Edward assumes that the man - 'Ozzy' - has kicked the woman under the table. And whatever other silent forms of communication he's using appear to work, because the two of them move on to other, far less interesting topics of conversation, and Edward allows himself a few moments to retreat inside his mind and process what he's heard. 

Not only has Ozzy noticed him, but he finds him physically attractive. However, he seems to have no intention of initiating any kind of interaction with him, which leaves the ball firmly in Edward's court. For once in his life, he's at an advantage. He just has to decide whether he's brave enough to take the first step for himself. 

What's the worst that can happen? It's possible that he's misinterpreted the Hungarian, which could well result in Ozzy telling him in no uncertain terms to get lost. After allowing himself to become so deeply invested in the fantasy he presents, such a response would surely devastate him. He's not ready for a rejection. 

He's also not really prepared to put himself on the line like that while this woman, girlfriend or not, is providing a riveted audience. If it all fell through, he would much rather be able to pity himself without the knowledge that there was an unnecessary witness to his humiliation. 

He dwells on these things for long enough that his Americano is cold next time he goes to take a sip. He grimaces and wrinkles his nose, but it certainly works as a sobering snap back to reality. He tunes himself back into the conversation happening behind him, and quickly realises that the woman is preparing to leave. 

"You know, if I didn't have to work, I would be all up in your business and taking that risk for you." Edward hears her stand up and put on her coat. From what he can hear, Ozzy is staying where he is for the time being. "Next time, I will, if you haven't done anything yet. Anyway, I'll catch up with you later. Ciao, Ozzy!" 

"Yeah, yeah. See you, Ivy."

Edward studiously ignores her as she passes him, and he doesn't dare to move until long after he's heard the bell to signal that she's left. He becomes painfully aware that Ozzy is now alone, and he takes a deep breath, attempting to calm himself as he plans what, if anything, his next move will be. 

A few minutes later, Ozzy heaves a sigh and stands up too. He must also be about to leave. And Edward panics, because he's no closer to a plan of action. It seems that he's going to have to let this man slip away once again and hope that he gets another chance. 

Then that smell hits him. Lavender and sandalwood. Ozzy is passing him and if he wants to make any sort of move, this is his split second in which to do so. The scent calms him, quells his panic and terror, lulls him into a sort of confidence that he's not sure he's ever experienced before. 

He says, in the best Hungarian he can manage, just loud enough to be heard without mistake,  _ "I do like men." _

When his brain catches up with what he's just done, his blood runs like ice in his veins. Ozzy has stopped right there, staring at him with such a mixture of emotions trying to influence his expression that it's impossible to identify a single one. 

And oh heavens, he's even more breathtaking up close. Edward can pick out the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the strikingly cold green-blue of his eyes framed with dark and delicate lashes. The sight of him makes Edward's heart thud almost painfully, and he swallows hard, unable to snatch the words back out of the air and so left with no option to wait, like a rabbit in headlights, for a response. 

The silence, while he holds that stunning gaze, is a crushing weight. 

The reply, when it finally comes, is in careful English. "Excuse me?" 

Edward feigns significantly more assurance than he feels, and responds in Hungarian.  _ "You heard me." _

Before he can process what's happening, Ozzy pulls out the chair opposite him and sits down, leaning his elbows on the table and fixing him with an unreadable look. Edward can't help but squirm in his seat. 

"You speak Hungarian," he says, half statement and half question. Edward shrugs, shyness creeping back into him. 

"Sort of. I'm learning."

Ozzy raises an eyebrow, clearly not impressed with the clarification. "You speak  _ enough  _ Hungarian."

"Yes."

"You heard what I said about you."

"Yes, I think so."

"And you would be… receptive?" 

Edward bites his lip. This is not at all how he envisioned his evening playing out. Still, he braces himself, and decides to lay his cards on the table, for better or worse. "I think you're beautiful too."

It takes a moment to sink in, but then Ozzy's suspicious expression melts away into a wide and smouldering grin. "I'm Oswald." 

Some of Edward's tension dissipates as he returns the smile. "I'm Edward."

"Edward." Oswald seems to be testing the name on his tongue, rolling the syllables around his mouth, and it makes Edward's stomach drop in a very good way. "Would it be too forward of me to ask if you'll take a walk with me?" 

Edward drops his gaze, feeling coy. "Probably, but I would still accept."

Oswald laughs under his breath, and Edward can't help but join in. It feels like he's in the middle of a dream, like this can't actually be happening. Things like this don't happen in real life, especially not to people like him. And yet here he is, packing his books and laptop haphazardly back into his bag and preparing to follow Oswald out into the evening. 

His hands are shaking. Oswald waits patiently for him, and they leave together. Edward is walking on air, his head in the clouds, blindly willing to follow Oswald anywhere he might choose to go. He's got it bad, there's no doubt about that, and he knows that there will be no easy way to climb out of this particular rabbit hole, but that will be a concern for Future Ed. Present Ed is distracted, his skin tingling as Oswald takes him by the hand and leads him just around the corner from the coffee shop, into a narrow and damp alleyway. 

He finds himself pressed back against the wall, and Oswald is so close. For the first time, he realises that Oswald is noticeably shorter than himself, and he has to tilt his chin down to look him in the eyes. It's terribly endearing, but doesn't take away from his aura of confidence, of a man used to getting what he wants. 

Oswald leans forward to speak against his neck. "I've been thinking about you a lot. This truly is a fortunate turn of events."

A shudder runs through Edward at the sensation of warm breath flowing over his skin. He's not sure what to do with his hands, and they flail uselessly at his sides until he opts to settle them on Oswald's upper arms. 

"Me too," he strains to say, fascinated by the feeling of heavy fabrics and lean muscle under his palms. "I don't… I don't normally…" 

He trails off as Oswald's tongue darts out to lick a solid stripe up to his earlobe, and he feels his cock twitch with interest in his pants. Oswald has one hand pressed against his chest, over his heart, no doubt able to feel its wild beating, while the other slides down dangerously low, and he nips at Edward's earlobe. 

Edward is embarrassed to realise that he's whimpering, from both sensation and anticipation. This is all happening so fast, and he feels like he should be trying to slow things down, but is it really so bad that he doesn't want to? He's happy to be swept up in Oswald, to move at whichever pace he dictates. It's thrilling and wonderful. 

"Oh, don't worry, Edward." Oswald drops his palm to cup Edward's groin, and rubs him steadily while Edward stiffens fully under the attention. "I just want to make sure that you remember me."

Already, Edward expects that he will never forget this man for as long as he lives. He allows his head to fall back against the wall as he clutches Oswald tighter, and Oswald starts sucking hot kisses down his neck. 

Then Edward realises, belatedly, that they are very much in public and could easily be seen in this compromising position by any passers-by. Oddly enough, it doesn't affect his will to continue, but rather makes the entire prospect appeal in an even more sinful way. He pushes his hips back into Oswald's grip and shivers when Oswald bares his teeth against his skin in an answering smile. 

"I will," he promises, half whispered. "Oswald…" 

Oswald tears himself away from Edward's neck and slips his unoccupied hand into Edward's hair to wrench him downwards. "I like how you say my name," he growls, and he devours Edward's mouth in a hungry kiss that Edward is barely prepared for. Rather, Edward is dazed and his brain is operating at half-capacity, and all he can do when Oswald pulls back is stare at him like a starving man staring at a hot meal. 

"Say it again," Oswald demands, curling his fingers around the shape of Edward's cock. Edward couldn't refuse him even if he wanted to. 

"Oswald. Oswald, please…" 

Oswald kisses him again, a satisfied hum vibrating through his lips. "I like that even better," he says, after he stops sucking Edward's tongue into his mouth. "You beg gorgeously."

His hand is working with purpose, stimulating Edward with no reprieve, and Edward internally curses the woeful lack of experience in this area that has him hurtling towards to brink far too quickly. The only way he manages to hold back at all is imagining the disappointment on Oswald's face if this all ends too soon. 

It's not going to work for long, but it's the only lifeline Edward has, and he clings to it with a wholehearted desperation. 

It doesn't appear that Oswald cares for his efforts. He pulls Edward's hair, rubs against him, squeezes him, brushes the tips of their noses together and kisses him like he's been waiting for it his whole life. 

Then, somehow, his hand is wrapped around Edward's bare flesh, pumping him with firm strokes that make his eyes roll back in his head. Perhaps it's not entirely surprising that he's managed to get inside Edward's trousers without him noticing; Edward has no room in his consciousness for anything but the contact and the delicious scent of Oswald. 

When he comes (and it's definitely much too soon to be polite), it's hard and it's fast and he feels like he might pass out as the waves of white hot pleasure ripple through his body. He bites his lip to stifle any noises as best he can, but he's not convinced he's successful. He's always been on the more vocal side. The only thing keeping him upright is the solid structure of Oswald's body against him, providing essential support whilst his knees are weak and shaking. 

Oswald lifts his hand - which, Edward notes, is shiny and sticky with his release - and sucks his fingers into his mouth, one by one, maintaining eye contact throughout. 

If Edward were capable of coming again immediately, that filthy and obscene sight would have done it for him. He tries to reboot his brain, to move, to speak, to  _ do something,  _ but he's been rendered temporarily out of order. At least, he hopes its temporary. Oswald might have broken him. 

Oswald laughs, and there's a fondness to it, before tucking him back into his pants and planting a much softer, gentler kiss on his mouth. He straightens his own clothes and clears his throat, and then presses a small piece of paper into Edward's palm. 

"You know," he says, conversationally, as if he hadn't just licked Edward's semen off his hands, "I was going to drop this on your table when I left today. I have somewhere I need to be now, but rest assured I shall look forward to hearing from you  _ anytime,  _ Edward."

Edward still isn't quite back online. He tightens his fingers around the paper and moves his mouth, but no words come out. 

Oswald kisses him one last time and whispers, in Hungarian, " _ See you again,"  _ before turning and waking away. Edward watches his back as he gets further away, then turns a corner and disappears from sight. 

He releases a breath that he hadn't realised he was holding, hastily fumbling with the paper to inspect its contents. 

It's a phone number. Oswald's phone number. 

His smile is unparalleled, and he clutches the paper to his chest, now his most treasured possession. It's proof that this whole encounter wasn't just an especially vivid hallucination. Though it's still a little while before he comes back to his senses enough to leave the alley, it hardly seems to matter that his clothes are now damp and wrinkled. 

The prospect of seeing Oswald again fuels him, and he wonders whether, when next they meet, Oswald will be impressed with a riddle in Hungarian. He certainly hopes so. 


End file.
